by Kaja Foglio
“Wooster is good. If he’s somehow failed and she’s here…if that’s her up there…then something terrible must have happened to him.” Gil thought about this for a moment and his face darkened. “And if it hasn’t—it will.”
Agatha, Wooster, Zeetha, and Krosp followed the old man down the causeway. Wooster was furious with himself. “This old fellow is the one who gave us directions outside the city gates.”
Agatha nodded. “He was also sitting next to me at the café.”
Zeetha bit her lip. “Why didn’t we notice—”
The old man’s amused voice floated back towards them. “Because I did not want to be noticed.” He smiled. “It’s a knack.”
He led Agatha and her friends away from the Castle and through the streets of Mechanicsburg. They followed him warily—he refused to say anything more until they were “somewhere more private,” which they all agreed was wise, but unsatisfying.
Everywhere people were clustered on the streets and in doorways, talking with a great amount of gesticulating and hand waving. Voices were raised in argument and wonder. As far as Agatha could determine, the out-of-towners seemed inclined to believe the newcomer was the real thing, a genuine Heterodyne, returned at last! The natives were perfectly willing to concede that this might be true, in which case, any item purchased on this momentous occasion would obviously become a treasured memento. Thus, all of the merchants seemed to be doing a roaring business, with trays of souvenirs—or indeed anything that bore a “Made in Mechanicsburg” label—evaporating as fast as the delighted merchants could haul them out from their back rooms.
After a while, Agatha noticed that even though most people in the streets couldn’t take three steps without being solicited for their opinion, the locals checked themselves when they caught sight of the old man by her side and smoothly intercepted anyone who headed his way.
Thus, it was within a bubble of calm that the group turned onto a small drawbridge decorated with legions of grotesque little monsters in red-painted wrought iron and crossed to a barren islet in the center of the river that wove through the town. Something struck Agatha as odd, and she paused to look about. Though the rest of the town was a textbook example of high-density urban design, there were no structures on the island itself except for the bridge platform that crossed it. Agatha peered over the chest-high walls but could see nothing except patches of scrubby lichen. A small metal sign bolted to the stones warned them not to leave the path.12
There was no other traffic here. Agatha stopped and faced the old man. “I think this a good place for us to talk. Who are you, sir?”
The old man regarded her for a moment, then leaned back upon a railing. “That is what I intend to ask you, Miss.”
Ardsley shook his head. “I do not think we should reveal—”
Agatha overrode him. “But I do. I think he knows a lot. We know nothing.”
She took a deep breath and stood tall. She looked the old man in the eye. “I am Agatha Heterodyne. My parents were Bill Heterodyne and Lucrezia Mongfish.”
The old man smiled and nodded agreeably. It was disappointingly anticlimactic. “Interesting.” He paused. “Where are they?”
Agatha blinked. There were a number of possible answers to that question, most of them awkward: (“My mother? Well, her consciousness appears to be lodged in my head…”) but she decided to keep things simple for the moment.13
“I don’t know. I last saw Uncle Barry eleven years ago. I was raised in Beetleburg by…well…you’d know them as Punch and Judy.”
This caused the old man to raise an eyebrow. “Not a hidden monastery in the Americas? That’s different,” he allowed. “Did Punch ever mention a Master Heliotrope?”
Agatha frowned. “No, because he couldn’t talk.”
Now both eyebrows went up. “Not many people know that.”
Agatha leaned in. “They probably also don’t know that he got the hiccups after getting an electric shock.” The old man was silent. “I know you’re testing me. I can keep this up.”
An odd expression swept across the old man’s face. “But—it’s impossible,” he whispered.
“Yeah, I think it’s pretty weird myself.” Krosp’s voice was loud in his ear.
That snapped the old man out of his reverie and he turned on the cat that stared up at him with a smug gaze. “Don’t you try to boggle me, Mister Talking Cat. This is Mechanicsburg and you are by no means the oddest thing in this town!” Krosp looked slightly disappointed but the old man didn’t notice.
He had already turned his attention back to Agatha. There was a new gleam in his eye. “But you, my lady—you are something quite special.”
Agatha blinked. “You…you believe me?”
The old man tapped a fingernail against his teeth. “Not yet,” he admitted, “but I will listen.”
With that he swept off his flat cap, revealing a pattern of odd scars upon his head as he bowed. “I am Carson von Mekkhan. Former seneschal and keeper of the keys to Castle Heterodyne. Welcome home, my lady.” He straightened up and his gaze sharpened. “If my lady you be.”
Wooster had started at the old man’s name. “Von Mekkhan…von Mekkhan was the name of the seneschal. But—he died in the attack upon the castle. The family is extinct.”
“You’re remarkably well informed, young man.” Carson’s face grew older. “Yes, I died a bit that day…” He straightened up. “But the Masters always considered that a poor excuse. For the last several years I have been going under the name of Carson Heliotrope.”
Wooster waved a hand. “The records clearly show—Lady Heterodyne, this can’t be the seneschal!”
Carson pointed with his bony forefinger. “And I know, personally, that this young lady cannot be who she says she is!”
He then regarded Agatha with uncertain eyes. “But.” he continued slowly, “I’m an old man and I’ve lived in Mechanicsburg my entire life. One thing I’ve learned is that just because something is ‘impossible,’ doesn’t mean that it cannot happen.”
Agatha frowned. “Yet you say you don’t believe me.”
Carson grinned an evil grin. “This is a town built by science, my lady. Mad science, I’ll concede, but science still. I’ll entertain the idea that you are an impossible thing, but belief requires proof.” His grin faltered. “You… you don’t have any proof on you, do you?”
Agatha thought about the locket at her throat. It contained pictures of Bill and Lucrezia, but no doubt so did a thousand others for sale less than a hundred meters from where she was standing.
“Nothing concrete, sorry.”
The old man clearly didn’t seem to know if he should be disappointed or relieved. “Well, you could still be useful,” he mused.
Agatha raised her eyebrows questioningly.
“You don’t act like the usual bogus Heterodyne heir,” Carson explained. “You’re too low-key.”
He offered Agatha his arm and the little group continued onward. They crossed another bridge and entered a neighborhood that displayed no tourist paraphernalia. The shops and cafés displayed markedly cheaper prices, and while everything still had a feeling of slow decay, the people here were more personable.
Krosp glanced upwards at the hovering dirigible. “Ah, so the one who entered the castle—”
Carson interrupted him. “No, she doesn’t fit either. We get fake Heterodynes through here every year or so, sometimes more. Fewer these days than we used to, but they still come. They’re either con artists or deluded, messianic crazies.” He sighed. “The tourists love it, of course, and that’s good for business. The townspeople…” He checked himself and continued on a different tack.
“But the one now in the castle—she’s different. She has an armed staff. She has an airship. She has funding.” He prodded Agatha in the arm. “She is being managed.” And at this, Carson’s face grew dark. “And that means someone is trying to take over my town.”
At this point, they stopped walking, and with a sig
h, Carson indicated they should enter a small shop. Agatha glanced at the name over the door: The Sausage Factory. However, when they entered, she was surprised to find not a butcher’s shop, but a café. It was large and well lit with high, arched ceilings and the walls and furnishings were covered in decorative woodwork carved in the Art Nouveau style.
The gold and red tiled floor was crowded with small round tables covered with crisp white tablecloths. Cozy booths with tall wooden backs and scandalously carved privacy screens lined the walls. Along the back ran an elaborate glass-fronted counter, behind which were a number of intriguing machines as well as shelves crammed with bottles and row upon row of porcelain mugs in a variety of sizes. Within the counter were long glass shelves displaying assorted pastries and cakes, pies and quiches, sweet cheeses and blocks of halvah, and marzipan molded into trilobites and other festive shapes.
An amazing smell hit them as they walked through the door, combining the odors of fresh baking, warm butter, chocolate, nutmeg, cinnamon, and fresh coffee.
Zeetha stepped through the door and stopped dead. She took a deep, appreciative sniff, and declared, “I am living here now.”
One of the waitresses, a plump girl with a dazzling smile, laughed. “Sorry, Mademoiselle, but there’s a waiting list.”
Krosp’s face settled into a frown. “I don’t smell any meat. Or even plants. What kind of restaurant is this?”
Carson snorted as he shepherded them between the tables towards the back. “It is a coffee shop. They started in Amsterdam quite a while back, but this is the first one in Mechanicsburg. This is where the business of running the town is done these days.” His tone was disapproving—it was evident that the old man was unimpressed at this turn of events.
Wooster casually scanned the room and frowned. “I don’t see Burgermeister Zuken here.” At Agatha’s look of curiosity, he explained, “He’s the head of the City Council.”
Carson snorted. “That fool? I should hope not!” He stopped next to a large booth that was tucked into a corner. Sitting alone at the table, an oversized china mug in his hand, was a tall, elegantly dressed young man. His hair was meticulously cut in the latest style favored by the dandies of Prague and he was dressed like a minor city functionary, a set of silver city seals adorning his lapels. It was obvious by looking at their faces that he and Carson were related.
“This is the fool you want,” Carson declared sourly. “My grandson, Vanamonde.”
The young man’s mouth quirked upwards in a semi-smile as he gently deposited his cup in its saucer with a quiet “clink.” “Am I now part of the tour, grandfather?”
“You could be,” the old man said in a low tone. “You never leave this table!”
Vanamonde looked surprised. “But why should I? The seats are comfortable. Everyone knows where to find me, and lovely young women bring me coffee all day long.”
At this he looked up and gave Agatha and her friends a warm smile. “Which you simply must try!” He waved to the other seats in the booth. “Please do sit down. Don’t wait for my grandfather to do the polite thing, he rode with the Jägermonsters in his youth and never quite got over it.”
Carson scowled but slid into the booth beside his grandson. The others filled the opposite bench. Instantly two of the waitresses swooped down and placemats, cutlery, and an astonishing selection of little pastries appeared before them; everything from warm, buttery croissants, to elaborate concoctions of custard, cream cheese, glazed fruits, and chocolate. Zeetha immediately began eating as many of these as she could and showed no signs of stopping. The second time the tray had to be replaced, she assured the obviously delighted pastry chef that she was “just getting started.”
The waitress returned with tall silver pots that contained a rich black coffee. Only after this had been poured out and various condiments had been circulated along with a bowl of cream for Krosp, did Vanamonde lean back and place his fingertips together.
“I assume you’re here about the heiress,” he said to Agatha, conversationally. Agatha opened her mouth, but then merely nodded. The young man nodded back and began laboriously adding yellow crystals of sugar to his coffee with a tiny silver spoon. “She is a mystery, but her main backers appear to be a pair of gentlemen of fortune. One is a Baron Oublenmach, a disreputable character who purchased his barony with money accumulated through a long career that has included everything from confidence work to light piracy. The other is His Grace, Josef Strinbeck, a deposed Duke of Lithuania and an idiot.
“Their craft is a Flash-class ship fresh out of the Stockholm yards and paid for in cash by the way. Dutch gold, obviously laundered.
“It employs that new chameleon skin technology that wowed everyone at the St. Petersburg airshow last fall. They can make it any color they want. So—that ostentatious pink? That’s quite deliberate.
“They clearly have an agenda, but they’re rushed. Personally, I believe that they are part of some larger organization—and that they have set things in motion before everyone was ready.
“As for their cat’s-paw—the young lady, who was dressed in Vienna but educated in Paris—she has entered the castle, but is, at the moment, still held up in the Courtyard of Regret. She has been handing out gold coins, which—” he consulted a small scrap of paper before him, “—assay out as 95 percent pure.”
He stirred his coffee, tapped the spoon against the rim twice, and took a sip. “And that,” he said, carefully not looking at his grandfather, “is what I have discovered within the last hour, while never leaving this table.”
The old man rolled his eyes and grunted. Vanamonde turned a charming smile upon Agatha. “And may I have the pleasure of your acquaintance?”
Carson leaned in. “This is the Lady Agatha Heterodyne. Daughter of Master William and the Lady Lucrezia.”
Vanamonde stared and only came to his senses when he realized that his hand had slipped and was now dribbling coffee into his lap. He slammed his cup down with a clunk and a splash, which only added to his distress. “There are two of them?” he blurted out.
The old man smiled toothily and passed him a napkin.
“No,” Agatha said calmly but firmly. “There’s her, and then there is me. I am the real thing.”
Vanamonde stared at her. “But…a girl…”
Agatha looked at him steadily, but her eyes narrowed. “I promise not to get any cooties on you.”
Vanamonde reddened. “That’s not the point,” he sputtered.
At that moment one of the servers appeared, pot in hand. “Need anything, Van?”
The young man waved at the rest of the table. “More coffee! Please!”
The waitress efficiently refilled everyone’s cup and then paused when she saw that Agatha’s was untouched. “Is everything all right, Mademoiselle?”
“Oh, yes,” Agatha smiled. “It’s fine, thanks.”
After the waitress moved off, Zeetha leaned in close from within a small cloud of powdered sugar. “A problem?”
Agatha reddened slightly. “I’ve never had coffee,” she whispered. “Lilith said a young lady shouldn’t drink stimulants.”
“We’re trying not be conspicuous,” Zeetha pointed out. “Drink your coffee like a warrior.”
Agatha sighed. “Yes, Zeetha.”
She gingerly sipped the hot liquid and almost spit it out. “Ew,” she whispered. “Is it supposed to taste like this?”
Wooster looked upon her with the sympathy of a devoted tea-drinker stranded in the land of the heathen. “Cream and sugar help,” he suggested. Agatha added copious quantities of both.
Meanwhile Van and his grandfather had their heads together. “No, really,” the younger man was asking, “why are they here?”
The old man deliberately tipped some of his coffee into his saucer and added cream and sugar before sipping it delicately. Van tried to ignore this. He knew he was being baited.
The old man smacked his lips loudly. Van closed his eyes. “The girl has made a claim,�
�� Carson stated. “If she is legitimate, she is our liege.”
Van’s eyes flicked over to Agatha as she was gamely draining her cup. “Oh, please.”
Carson shrugged. “If she isn’t, she will still be useful. Strinbeck is a buffoon but Oublenmach is more of a schemer. If he’s out in front here, it means he’s making a big play. Strinbeck means the Fifty Families are involved somehow. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were troops on the way.”
Van sat up. “Troops?”
Carson nodded. “Oh, I’m sure that they’ll be from someone or another who is ostensibly determined to be the first to recognize the new Heterodyne and will only be here to help support her during what will no doubt be a ‘rocky period of transition for the town.’” He cocked an eye at his grandson, who nodded slowly.
“Rocky for us, I imagine, if we don’t support her.”
“That’s my guess. With the Baron down, the Empire will hesitate. Thus, having our own heir will confuse things. Muddy the waters a bit. Slow things down.”
“Cold.”
Both men jumped back as Krosp’s voice emerged from under the table. “And afterwards,” the cat continued, worming his way onto the seat between them, “once the Baron’s back in control, it’d be easy enough for you to get rid of Agatha.” He rubbed his paws together. “I think I like you people.”
Van blinked. “But, your friend—”
Krosp twitched his whiskers. “No, no, it’s okay. You still think she’s a fake.” He smiled. “I know better.”
Van realized he was clutching his coffee cup defensively and set it down with a thump. “Yes, I do think she’s a fake.”
Krosp leaned in and gave Van’s cup a quick sniff. “You’ll learn.” Another sniff. “Pretty soon, too.”
Both men glanced at each other. “Oh?”
Krosp batted at the mug with his paw. “This coffee you gave her. I’m familiar with some of the alkaloids in there…strong stuff?”
The younger man looked offended. “It’s my own personal blend. Naturally, I emphasized its rejuvenating and brain-invigorating properties—”
Carson interrupted, “Once it sits for twenty-four hours, we use it to strip paint. Why?”
